


Pitch Grey

by ifuckboyswhofuckgirls (cadmiumredvulpini)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Brothels, Closet Homosexuality, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Underage, Size Kink, Unimaginative Imagery, underage prositution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:40:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5382701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmiumredvulpini/pseuds/ifuckboyswhofuckgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>basically: </p><p>Robb takes his army to a brothel. There, he meets Jon Snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. only virgins for the king

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed. Leave a comment and a kudos if you liked it!
> 
> If you didn't, go and do so as well!

Robb was young when he became king in the North.

But he felt much younger, now, facing his three advisors, Roose Bolton, Rickard Karstark and his own mother, Catelyn, who was frowning deeply, the lines and creases on her face growing deeper.

Though she was youngest of the three, she exuded the most maturity when dealing with the situation at hand. And she was very much not happy. Lord Karstark was inviting Robb to indulge the men in a brothel, saying that it was a much-needed rest in the war, with Roose Bolton agreeing in his characteristic laconic nod.

Catelyn was arguing that it was not becoming of a king to allow his men to a brothel, but Robb was feeling swayed—he himself had not been to a brothel and although the thought made him a little uneasy, owing to his inexperience and unkingly virginity, he felt eager to accept. Maybe he himself could find a reprieve from the stress of the war.

As Catelyn’s age was more pronunced by her nagging tone, Robb felt undermined and made younger by his mother’s denial of him.

So he agreed, and Rickard Karstark clapped him hard on the back, sparing a grin for the frowing redhead matriarch. Roose Bolton, not unexpectedly, nodded once more and rose from his seat. Lord Karstark followed, awaiting their dismissal.

Catelyn, however, was unswayed. She folded her arms and looked at Robb, but since not even she could oppose the king, Robb rose and left the tent himself, leaving his mother defeated—albeit it didn’t show. Rickard Karstark and Roose Bolton followed promptly after, and Catelyn let out a sigh.

Tonight, her son will lose his virginity.

~

This scene was entirely unfamiliar—the lights were too dim, the air was too heavy, there were no windows, and in spite of there being only one brazier in the middle of the hall, it was far too warm.

And the scents, the scents were overwhelming. It was a curious mix of sweat and sugar, oil and the same, thick, wafting perfume. It was intoxicating—exactly how Theon had described to him in detail the whorehouses he frequented.

As of yet, there were no women in the hall—only soldiers and lords and a king, and a single man in a loose-fitting robe and expensive jewelry. Like Theon said, this man would be the proprietor of the business.

And as Theon usually was, in matters concerning whorehouses and its like—he was right. The man stepped forward and bowed deeply to Robb and then nodding once to each of the lords before him. Robb acknowledged him with a similar nod, swallowing the lump in his throat and ignoring the unprecedented heat in his stomach.

It was that damned perfume—Robb guessed. Its very scent was like an aphrodisiac and he could feel sweat prickle his nape and a tiny, uneasy tremor shake his knees.

The bejeweled man spoke again. “Your men may enter the rooms to the left and right,” the owner started. “And the Lords,”—he nodded to each one of them—“will be occupying the rooms behind me.”

With that, he gestured for the men to follow him, and one by one they disappeared into small, dim chambers with several sheer curtains and dim candles enclosed in red glass, leaving Robb by the threshold.

“My king,” a low, breathy voice said from behind him. Roose Bolton, apparently was still in the room. “I shall be taking my leave.”

“You’re not going to…” Robb started, and he gave the room a quick glance, not knowing what to call whatever it was they were to be doing. 

“I’m not so primal,” Robb expected him to say, or some other ecclasiastical excuse or condescending remark. But Roose did not say that.

“I am loyal to my wife, my liege.” And he turned and left the brothel, into the wet, grey weather.

Robb, now, was fully alone in the large, dim hall. He looked around in the barely furnished room, finding for himself a place to sit, or await his men doing… whatever they will be doing. He found a seat near the brazier and tried to ease his nerves by rubbing his now-sweaty palms over his trousers.

A minute passed quickly, and soon, the first few moans began.

It was only the women, first. The high-pitched, well-practiced sound of desire and pleasure. They were grunting, moaning, all of them nearly equivocal in tone and pitch, and they came at regular, predictable intervals, and Robb could make out just when his soldiers would thrust into the women.

And then came the chorus of deep, rumbling voices, rising in carnal pleasure. Robb could hear their whispers and whimpers of their arousal, hear their yeses and nos and hear them calling out names and gods. From behind him, a prolonged moan sounded, a little higher-pitched than the others, the indulgence practically emanating from his smooth, swagger tone. Robb could tell this man was powerful, was probably large and dark-haired, with a stubble or beard and strong, rippling muscles on his body. He could just imagine the man’s powerful arms moving in a rhythm as he pressed a slender, maybe redheaded, lithe body against him, could imagine his handsome face contorting in hedonistic pleasure. And then Robb could almost see this man’s jaw slacking as he thrust his length deeper, tighter, into the whore, and then him pulling out completely as he finished himself, his entire body rocking in a tremor as his strong fist closed over his massive erection, large and angry, streaked with veins, like the rest of his body, as he pumped faster, and faster—

“Excuse me, my liege.”

Robb folded his hands on his lap immediately, pushing down on his breeches as he put on his kingly posture once more. He was taken aback when the bejeweled man in loose robes once more stood before him, across the dancing flames of the brazier.

The man nodded to him, and Robb rose to his height again, his hands crossed before him when the man spoke again. “My king, I have reserved for you the largest of the rooms.”

Robb felt uneasy once more, and before he could find a thank you or something similar, the man spoke once more. 

“If you will follow me,” he said. 

Robb did, and the man led him into a slightly brighter antechamber, with a raised stepped dais on one end of the room, and a comfortable seat on the other. Past the chair was a room draped with clean-looking curtains, a wolf rug and a large, elegant, but imposing bed. Beside the bed was a console, with wine and fruit laid on it, but sparse—one did not eat so much in a brothel.

The man gestured for Robb to sit on the chair before the dais, and then left him again, wordlessly, to go to a secluded area, accessed through a fold in the wall behind the dais. From there, a line of young, bright and light-haired women emerged following the bejeweled man, with identical smiles. But their eyes betrayed their inexperience—only virgins for the King.

The man coughed, drawing Robb’s attention from a design embroidered into the chair, and Robb once more, was taken aback, before putting his kingly face on. His brows furrowed as if examining the women thoroughly, but racing through his mind were images of the same young women under the ministration of a strong, powerful man, and the bejeweled owner of the brothel interrupted his thoughts.

“Is anything the matter, my liege?” He asked, gesturing for the women to return to the area behind the dais. He stepped down and stood before Robb, and smiled, looking at the young king.

He closed the doors leading into the selection antechamber, bolting them with a click of metal, and returned to the king in the North. He paused again, just looking at the king—now moreso a boy—before him.

He bowed his head low and told Robb, “It is not so unnatural, your grace.”

Robb looked confused for a moment, before understanding what the older man said. “It must be the stress…” He started, but the bejeweled man shook his head.

“There are no secrets or shame in a brothel house,” he said, like the words of some septas and holy conscripts within their tall towers of worship. And so was this a place of worship, instead devoting to pleasure and beauty here, instead of fealty and piety there. And the High Septum of that establishment, the bejeweled man, forgave him preemptively. “I know what you want.”

Robb tried to protest but the man had already left to the room behind the dais. Robb could faintly hear the distant sounds of pleasure, but then he heard the scuffling of feet and silk.

The man was followed by a long line of handsome young men in loose gowns and tunics of cotton and silk. They wore no adornment on their smooth, taut skin, but they were glowing, along with the dancing fire of the brazier. They possesed lissom, graceful bodies and beautiful, clean faces, their eyes feigning the same youth and innocence their bodies exhibited. They all gazed at the handsome king in his throne, seated before him, judging their worth—the bejeweled man frowned a bit.

Robb was again not fascinated by them, none of them drawing his curiosity. The older man sent them away yet again with a quick gesture of his hand, and the lot of them went shuffling back behind the dais. 

But the owner would not be deterred—he had one last attempt yet, he would find a man for the king’s tastes. He nodded to the king his departure, before promptly leaving the dais.

Robb found himself waiting again, seated in front of an empty stage, him being the audience to sound and space. The bejeweled man in loose-fitting robes could be heard going around the backroom, picking, finding, selecting. Robb heard him call a few unfamiliar names, yet nobody emerged, still.

After a long while, numerous names having been called and the vassals of House Stark once more gaining energy as their voices climbed faintly in the background, the man emerged, a little sweat on his forehead as he dashed out in front of the king.

Following him was a line of handsome, buff men in various states of undress, their skin glossy and dark hair disheveled. These men excited Robb, and the bejeweled man wiped the sweat off his forehead.

Robb felt a familiar heat creep up his stomach, his knees feeling a little weaker—but this time not because of the perfume. The sight before him was thoroughly arousing, some of the men leaning on each other’s bare bodies, but he felt uneasy, still.

He could not see himself following these men into his chamber. No matter how much it aroused him, his guilt eating at him, and at the unkingliness of his future actions.

He thanked the man, but shook his head, and dismissed him, standing to enter his chambers alone. The man left his side, dejected, and ushered the men out, some of them already having taken a liking to the king, whooping and dancing and stripping their already sparse items of clothing.

Robb ignored them, instead listening to the thumping of his heart. He was turning to the room behind him, gripping the doorframe, considering self-gratification.

And then, as the last one of the men went disappeared behind the dais, someone rushed up to see the bejeweled man.

Robb lingered at the doorframe, watching this newcomer speak to the owner. He was about Robb’s age, with dark, almost black curls tossed into a messy mane behind his head. He had pale, calloused skin and was only slightly taller than Robb, but similarly built, with broad shoulders and a strong chest, and biceps that were probably more accustomed to hauling meat and cattle carcass than swinging a sword.

But he was the most curious thing Robb had seen all night. This newcomer possesed these dark, brooding eyebrows over beautiful, expressive eyes, almost hidden behind his long curls. He stood gracefully, his movement suave and with a confident swank to it, his powerful arms swinging as he walked and talked. His swagger was evident in his gait, and his cheap trousers tight at his powerful thighs, moving around the dais like a proper swordsman. 

He had a leather scabbard to his side, a large, hard sword of good, strong build barely sheathed by the cheap material. Robb felt his hand move to his own sword at his side, polished and long, but still prominent even in its expensive scabbard.

The young man caught him looking, and immediately looked away, putting on a composed look, and patted the sword at his side, large and hard in its sheath. He turned back and dismissed himself.

The bejeweled man was about to leave, when Robb couldn’t help but cough.

“I-I… There is one thing I want.” He announced, hoping the man would get what he had said.

“Anything, your grace.” The older man replied. He had a glimmer of hope in his eye.

“That young man you were talking to, who is he?” Robb said, almost swallowing his words as the heat in his stomach had risen in temperature, and his knees were almost shaking.

The bejeweled man paused, before saying. “He is under my care, your grace.” His eye twitched a little, his voice was hesitant, and Robb could tell.

“He seems like he is a good swordsman.”

“Oh! He is,” the man said with pride in his eye. “He’s saved me a good dozen times from cheaters and stubborn men who can’t pay and gives ‘em a good cut or two.” The man’s voice faltered once more, remembering who the customer was and what this place was, and what he did for a living.

“What is his name?” Robb asked. 

The man hesitated longer this time, but huffed out a response. “Jon Snow.”

Robb was not surprised by his last name—this man could not bear anyone as beautiful as Jon Snow. He watched as the man looked at him suddenly fearfully, and he mustered all he could of his kingly superiority, and exhaled before he said.

“Bring him to my chambers.”


	2. greatest hypocrite in all of westeros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is still no sex. And minor plot development.

Robb turned and entered his room without another word, closing the large doors behind him.

He let out a breath, then forced himself a smile, before tentatively taking a seat on the large bed and fetching a cup of water for himself from the bedside table. He looked around the room, the only other items of furniture beside the bed and table being a plain black-wooded wardrobe and a washtub in front of a small furnace.

Mirrors hung from each side of the room, dusted and old, with tiny marks of rust at the edges, but otherwise clear, and Robb could just imagine the dozens, maybe hundreds of men and women those mirrors had witnessed reenacting their conception.

Robb wondered if there had been anyone like him, before.

Maybe the Targaryens, who’d bred sister and brother, had gone mad enough once to wed brother and brother, sister and sister. Maybe name a king, a ruling king who was a swordswallower, through and through.

But Robb was in the north, where such people were hanged and tried and beheaded. And Robb was King in the North, where he would be hanging and trying and beheading men of similar depravity as him. 

He would become the greatest hypocrite Westeros has ever seen.

Robb spared a glance at the fruits that lay on the table. They were in reflective polished plates, with dainty flowering on the edges, and Robb plucked a grape from the small bunch. He bit into it casually, not thinking about the taste or crisp, instead letting his mind wander elsewhere.

Of the boy he’d just seen outside, of his swordsman form and his strong thighs, of his demure, boyish features. Robb felt uneasy thinking about it. Thinking about what he would do to this boy, of what he would allow this boy to do to him, of the rape he was about to commit.

Robb could not forget the look that came onto the brothel owner’s features as soon as he’d issued his command. He would have his boy who he’d been so proud of become a whore under his own roof. Then again, there were no secrets or shame in a brothel house. Maybe he deserved it.

But the boy, Jon Snow, did not.

Robb immediately stopped picking fruit from the tray and paced the room, his hands running through his hair, his breath picking up as he strode back and forth. He worried his lower lip, as his head pounded, each step weighing like lead and his resolve lowering. What had he done? What was he about to do?

He was about to force this Jon Snow into sex with him. In a brothel. As his mother awaited his return the next morning, probably tormenting herself sewing her son an offering to the gods to absolve the king of all sin. Gods have mercy on him.

Maybe he could yet turn his fate. He could march out and command all his men out the brothel, to leave and face the cold grey weather and sleep in cold grey tents and hard, icy bedding, nothing but their warmth to keep them company. Robb would have his mother for company, however, grumbling and muttering and nagging at him, for his choices.

But if he did that, his mother would have won. Would have gained the upper hand, and Robb would be the king who cannot stand on his own feet. And his vassals and their lords would ridicule him, would write a drinking song of a redhead boy king and his nagging redhead mother.

So that was what it came to, Robb decided: be the poor, little boy king or be the greatest hypocrite in Westeros.

Too late, his pacing had distracted him: Jon Snow was at the door, standing in leather breeches and a cheap cloth tunic, snow still on his boots, his hair still with frost, his hand still on the hard, eager sword that was hidden in its sheath.

To be the hypocrite it was, then.

Robb stepped forward, a guilty heat in the pit of his stomach, a headache nagging at the back of his head, his hands suddenly finding nothing to do. So he settled on playing with the knot of his breeches. His breathing grew laborious as the silence deepened.

Wrong move, apparently.

Jon Snow’s eyes drifted to where Robb’s hands were, and he swallowed thickly. Sweat dripped off his forehead and Robb could feel the boy’s nerves working at him, fraying his resolve.

The brunette stepped forward, tentatively, and when the king before him did not speak, he took another one, gingerly. His eyes would not meet Robb’s. The boy was a step away from him, and his eyes were still on Robb’s hands, at the knot at his breeches.

“I—“ “My king—“

Robb gave the other boy a clinical smile. Jon Snow did not return the expression, but instead furrowed his brows and pulled on the edge of his shirt, bringing it up to Robb’s lips.

There was a little blood creeping at the edge of his mouth, Robb noted, and Jon wiped it with the hem of his tunic. Robb couldn’t help but look away, all of a sudden feeling hot, oxygenated blood rushing to his extremities. 

“My king,” Jon started again, now looking at Robb truly. He had an expression of awe on his features, as if he could not believe it was his king standing before him. His eyes flickered up and down Robb’s face, at his eyes, his lips, his red hair, his stubble and strong, kingly jaw. 

Robb suddenly had a bout of aphasia. Where were his advisors when he needed them most? He was taught great houses and their words, strategies and manouvres, politics and economy and court jargon—nothing about this, nothing about the other responsibilities of a king, such as taking his men to brothels and fucking whores during a war.

He tried to face the other man, look him in the eyes and find his answers in the curve of his lips, the small hairs on his cheeks that escaped the blade, the brilliant glitter of his irises in the light of the fire.

Instead Robb looked to his side, at the mirror, where Jon Snow was turned away partly, at the smudge of his blood at the edge of his tunic. He watched his handsome posture, his discreet body language, feet parted, his shoulders pushed back only slightly, his chest rising evenly, quietly—the stance of a swordsman in noble defeat.

“I’m sorry,” he wormed out at last. 

“There is nothing to apologize for, my king.” Jon Snow replied, his voice sweet and low, thrumming in the cold, crisp air. But there was so much to apologize for—for maiming his father figure by whoring his foster son, for being a king within a brothel, for being a man when a man cannot lay with his kin.

“Your shirt—“ Robb started, instead apologizing for what he can admit.

“My shirt is nothing.” He replied. Of course his shirt was nothing in comparison to what he was about to do. 

Robb would take advantage of this bastard boy who’s father’s fault became his burden, whom his father figure’s profession will harm.

“Is there anything you need, your grace?”

“You should stop referring to me as royalty,” Robb suggested, offering a brisk smile pulling his lips taut. “I insist,” he added, when the other man looked as if he was about to protest.

“Of course, your— Of course.”

Once more a deafening tide of silence washed over them. Perhaps it was again Robb’s burden to speak. “Let’s sit,” Robb said, and then immediately wishing he had not said that—there was only the bed to sit on in the otherwise bare room.

Jon leaned his sword beside the mantle, reflecting the fire softly in its dull, metallic sheen. Robb remembered his own, and then set it beside the table. In the mirror, Jon Snow’s eyes were still trained on him, studying his movement, like a proper swordsman. But proper swordsmen did not lay with other men.

Robb would rob this boy of propriety.

He took a seat near the head of the bed, and Jon followed suit, a few inches away from him. Robb offered the tray of fruits awkwardly, and the other man denied politely, with a shake of his head.

The redhead’s eyes wandered back to the swords. “You fight?” He asked, finally finding a topic.

“I do, y—yes, I do. But not often.” He admitted. Jon again met Robb’s eyes and the latter looked away again—he could not face the strength and innocence in those eyes.

“You fight well?” And Robb wished he had not spoken again. 

“I suppose,” and Jon offered a tentative smile, but unlike Robb’s it lit up his eyes. Robb’s cheeked flushed in an unkingly manner—Jon Snow was beautiful. “But I don’t fight a lot, your grace. Only when needed. Father cannot afford the training.”

“I—“ Robb started, but decided not to continue. In the mirror they were nothing like warriors, Robb, tucked away into himself, red hair and soft cushions, and Jon Snow, in nothing but cloth and leather breeches, seated inches away from this man.

His mother would be furious.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Robb said then, mustering the strength to look the other man in the eyes, before training them once more to the fire. And then the king will have his room in the brothel all to himself, surrounded by space and sound to face his mother, who, at least in essence if not in name, was right once more.

Jon seemed to think about this, eyes suddenly looking elsewhere, when Robb tried the courage to meet his again. He looked so much younger, caught off-guard, like this, his eyes open and raw, his features soft and demure. Robb felt that pang of cold guilt again, and the acute heat of his depravity, feeling his loins swell again.

In the mirror, he could see images of himself spread on the fur, skin hot and flush, eyes rolled back, his arms at his side and his legs in the air, dark hair covering his red own, lips clashing against lips, tongues in a dance, heat and flame singing the both of them in a wake of bruises and bite marks and blood.

In the images in the mirror, Jon Snow was fierce and able, and Robb was chaste and pliant underneath him. One would wonder which of them was king.

“I want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok shit so ONE MORE EXAM FOR THE WEEK 
> 
> i promise to add smut over the weekend


End file.
